1819. Born at Holne on Dartmoor, June 12.
1830-6. Father rector of Clovelly.
1832. Grammar School at Helston, Cornwall.
1836. Father rector of St. Luke’s, Chelsea. C. K. to King’s College, London.
1838-42. Magdalene College, Cambridge.
1842. Ordained1 at Farnham. Curate of Eversley.
1844. Marriage to Fanny Grenfell. Friendship with F. D. Maurice.
1844. Rector of Eversley.
1848. Chartist riots. ‘Parson Lot’ pamphlets.
1850. Alton Locke published.
1855. Westward2 Ho! published.
1857. Two Years Ago published.
1859. Chaplain to the Queen.
1860. Professor of Modern History at Cambridge.
1864. Tour in the south of France.
1869. Canon of Chester.
1870. Tour to the West Indies.
1873. Canon of Westminster.
1874. Tour to California.
1875. Death at Eversley, January 23.
Charles Kingsley
Parish Priest
If Charles Kingsley had been born in Scandinavia a thousand years earlier, one more valiant3 Viking would have sailed westward from the deep fiords of his native home to risk his fortunes in a new world, one who by his courage, his foresight4, and his leadership of men was well fitted to be captain of his bark. The lover of the open-air life, the searcher after knowledge, the fighter that he was, he would have been in his element, foremost in the fray5, most eager in the quest. But it was given to him to live in quieter times, to graft6 on the old Norse stock the graces of modern culture and the virtues9 of a Christian10; and in a peaceful parish of rural England he found full scope for his gifts. There he taught his own and succeeding generations how full and beneficent the life of a parish priest can be. Our villages and towns produced many notable types of rector in the nineteenth century, Keble, Hawker, Hook, Robertson, Dolling, and scores of others; but none touched life at more points, none became so truly national a figure as Charles Kingsley in his Eversley home.
His father was of an old squire11 family; like his son he was a clergyman, a naturalist13, and a sportsman. His mother, a Miss Lucas, came from Barbados; and while she wrote poetry with feeling and skill, she had also a practical gift of management. His father’s calling involved several changes of residence. Those which had most influence on his son were his removal in 1824 to Barnack, on the edge of the fens14, still untamed and full of wild life, and in 1830 to Clovelly in North Devon. More than thirty years later, when asked to fill up the usual questions in a lady’s album, he wrote that his favourite scenery was ‘wide flats and open sea’. He was precocious15 as a child and perpetrated poems and sermons at the age of four; but very early he developed a habit of observation and a healthy interest in things outside himself. Such a nature could not be indifferent to the beauty of Clovelly, to the coming and going of its fishermen, and to the romance and danger of their lives. The steep village-street nestling among the woods, the little harbour sheltered by the sandstone cliffs, the wide view over the blue water, won his lifelong affection.
His parents talked of sending him to Eton or Rugby, but in the end they decided16 to put him with Derwent Coleridge, the poet’s son, at the Grammar School of Helston. Here he had the scenery which he loved, and masters who developed his strong bent17 towards natural science; and here he laid the foundations of his knowledge of botany, which remained all his life his favourite recreation. He was an eager reader, but not a close student of books; fond of outdoor life, but not skilled in athletic18 games; capable of much effort and much endurance, but rather irregular in his spurts19 of energy. A more methodical training might have saved him some mistakes, but it might also have taken the edge off that fresh enthusiasm which made intercourse20 with him at all times seem like a breath of moorland air. Here he developed an independence of mind and a fearlessness of opinion which is rarely to be found in the atmosphere of a big public school.
At the age of seventeen, when his father was appointed to St. Luke’s, Chelsea, he left Helston and spent two years attending lectures at King’s College, London, and preparing for Cambridge. These were by no means among his happier years. He disliked London and he rebelled against the dullness of life in a vicarage overrun with district visitors and mothers’ meetings. His father, a strong evangelical, objected to various forms of public amusement, and Charles, though loyal and affectionate to his parents, fretted21 to find no outlet22 for his energies. He made a few friends and devoured23 many books, but his chief delight was to get away from town to old west-country haunts. Nor was his life at Cambridge entirely24 happy. His excitability was great: his self-control was not yet developed. Rowing did not exhaust his physical energy, which broke out from time to time in midnight fishing raids and walks from Cambridge to London. He wasted so much of his time that he nearly imperilled his chance of taking a good degree, and might perhaps count himself lucky when, thanks to a heroic effort at the eleventh hour, his excellent abilities won him a first class in classics. At this time he was terribly shaken by religious doubts. But in one of his vacations in 1839 he met Fanny Grenfell, his future wife, and soon he was on such a footing that he could open to her his inmost thoughts. It was she who helped him in his wavering decision to take Holy Orders; and, when he went down in 1842, he set himself to read seriously and thoroughly25 for Ordination26. Early in 1844 he was admitted to deacon’s orders at Farnham.
His first office marked out his path through life. With a short interval27 between his holding the curacy and the rectory of Eversley,31 he had his home for thirty-three years at this Hampshire village so intimately connected with his name. Eversley lies on the borders of Berkshire and Hampshire, in the diocese of Winchester, near the famous house of Bramshill, on the edge of the sandy fir-covered waste which stretches across Surrey. To understand the charm of its rough commons and self-sown woods one must read Kingsley’s Prose Idylls, especially the sketch28 called ‘My Winter Garden’. There he served for a year as curate, living in bachelor quarters on the green, learning to love the place and its people: there, when Sir John Cope offered him the living in 1844, he returned a married man to live in the Rectory House beside the church, which may still be seen little altered to-day. A breakdown29 from overwork, an illness of his wife’s, a higher appointment in the Church, might be the cause of his passing a few weeks or even months away; but year in, year out, he gave of his very best to Eversley for thirty-three years, and to it he returned from his journeys with all the more ardour to resume his work among his own people. The church was dilapidated, the Rectory was badly drained, the parish had been neglected by an absentee rector. For long periods together Kingsley was too poor to afford a curate: when he had one, the luxury was paid for by extra labour in taking private pupils. He had disappointments and anxieties, but his courage never faltered30. He concentrated his energies on steady progress in things material and moral, and whatever his hand found to do, he did it with his might.
The church and its services called for instant attention. The Holy Communion had been celebrated31 only three times a year; the other services were few and irregular; on Sundays the church was empty and the alehouse was full. The building was badly kept, the churchyard let out for grazing, the whole place destitute32 of reverence33. What the service came to be under the new Rector we can read on the testimony34 of many visitors. The intensity35 of his devotion at all times, the inspiration which the great festivals of the Church particularly roused in him, changed all this rapidly. He did all he could to draw his parishioners to church; but he had no rigid36 Puritanical37 views about the Sabbath. A Staff-College officer, who frequently visited him on Sundays, tells us of ‘the genial38, happy, unreserved intercourse of those Sunday afternoons spent at the Rectory, and how the villagers were free to play their cricket —“Paason he do’ant objec’— not ‘e — as loik as not, ‘e’ll come and look on”.’ All his life he supported the movement for opening museums to the public on Sundays, and this at a time when few of the clergy12 were bold enough to speak on his side. The Church was not his only organ for teaching. He started schools and informal classes. In winter he would sometimes give up his leisure to such work every evening of the week. The Rectory, for all its books and bottles, its fishing-rods and curious specimens39, was not a mere40 refuge for his own work and his own hobbies, but a centre of light and warmth where all his parishioners might come and find a welcome. He was one of the first to start ‘Penny Readings’ in his parish, to lighten the monotony of winter evenings with music, poetry, stories, and lectures; and though his parish was so wide and scattered41, he tried to rally support for a village reading-room, and kept it alive for some years.
His afternoons were regularly given to parish visiting, except when there were other definite calls upon his time. He soon came to know every man, woman, and child in his parish. His sympathies were so wide that he could make himself at home with every one, with none more so than the gipsies and poachers, who shared his intimate knowledge of the neighbouring heaths and of the practices, lawful42 and unlawful, by which they could be made to supply food. He would listen to their stories, sympathize with their troubles and speak frankly43 in return. There was no condescension44. One of his pupils speaks of ‘the simple, delicate, deep respect for the poor’, which could be seen in his manner and his talk among the cottagers. He could be severe enough when severity was needed, as when he compelled a cruel farmer to kill ‘a miserable45 horse which was rotting alive in front of his house’; and he could deal no less drastically with hypocrisy46. When a professional beggar fell on his knees at the Rectory gate and pretended to pray, he was at once ejected by the Rector with every mark of indignation and contumely. But the weak and suffering always made a special appeal to him. Though it was easy to vex47 and exasperate48 him, he could always put away his own troubles in presence of his own children or of any who needed his help. He had that intense power of sympathy which enabled him to understand and reach the heart.
From a letter to his greatest friend, Tom Hughes, written in 1851, we get a glimpse of a day in his life —‘a sorter kinder sample day’. He was up at five to see a dying man and stayed with him till eight. He then went out for air and exercise, fished all the morning and killed eight fish. He went back to his invalid49 at three. Later he spent three hours attending a meeting convoked50 by his Archdeacon about Sunday schools, and at 10.30 he was back in his study writing to his friends.
But though he himself calls this a ‘sample day’, it does no justice to one form of his activities. Most days in the year he would put away all thought of fishing, shut himself up in his study morning and evening, and devote himself to reading and writing. Great care was taken over his weekly sermons. Monday was, if possible, given to rest; but from Tuesday till Friday evening they took up the chief share of his thoughts. And then there were the books that he wrote, novels, pamphlets, history lectures, scientific essays, on which he largely depended to support his wife and family. Besides this he kept up an extensive correspondence with friends and acquaintances. Many wrote to consult him about political and religious questions; from many he was himself trying to draw information on the phenomena51 of the science which he was trying to study at the time. Among the latter were Geikie, Lyell, Wallace, and Darwin himself, giants among scientific men, to whom he wrote with genuine humility52, even when his name was a household word throughout England. His books can sometimes be associated with visits to definite places which supplied him with material. It is not difficult to connect Westward Ho! with his winter at Bideford in 1854, and Two Years Ago with his Pen-y-gwryd fishing in 1856. Memories of Hereward the Wake go back to his early childhood in the Fens, of Alton Locke to his undergraduate days at Cambridge. But he had not the time for the laborious53 search after ‘local colour’ with which we are familiar to-day. The bulk of the work was done in his study at Eversley, executed rapidly, some of it too rapidly; but the subjects were those of which his mind was full, and the thoughts must have been pursued in many a quiet hour on the heathery commons or beside the streams of his own neighbourhood.
About his books, his own judgement agreed with that of his friends. ‘What you say about my “Ergon” being poetry is quite true. I could not write Uncle Tom’s Cabin and I can write poetry: . . . there is no denying it: I do feel a different being when I get into metre: I feel like an otter54 in the water instead of an otter ashore55.’ The value of his novels is in their spirit rather than in their artistic56 form or truth; but it is foolish to disparage57 their worth, since they have exercised so marked an influence on the characters and lives of so many Englishmen, especially our soldiers and sailors, inspiring them to higher courage and more unselfish virtue8. Perhaps the best example of his prose is the Prose Idylls, sketches58 of fen-land, trout59 streams, and moors60, which combine his gifts so happily, his observation of natural objects, and the poetic61 imagination with which he transfuses62 these objects and brings them near to the heart of man. There were very few men who could draw such joy from familiar English landscapes, and could communicate it to others. The cult7 of sport, of science, and of beauty has here become one and has found its true high priest. In poetry his more ambitious efforts were The Saint’s Tragedy, a drama in blank verse on the story of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, and Andromeda, a revival63 of the old Greek legend in the old hexameter measure. But what are most sure to live are his lyrics64, ‘Airlie Beacon’, ‘The Three Fishers’, ‘The Sands of Dee’, with their simplicity65 and true note of song.
The combination of this poetic gift with a strong interest in science and a wide knowledge of it is most unusual; but there can be no mistaking the genuine feeling which Charles Kingsley had for the latter. It took one very practical form in his zeal66 for sanitation67. In 1854 when the public, so irrational68 in its moments of excitement, was calling for a national fast-day on account of the spread of cholera69, he heartily70 supported Lord Palmerston, who refused to grant it. He held it impious and wrong to attribute to a special visitation from God what was due to the blindness, laziness, and selfishness of our governing classes. His article in Fraser’s Magazine entitled ‘Who causes pestilence71?’ roused much criticism: it said things that comfortable people did not like to hear, and said them frankly; it was far in advance of the public opinion of that time, but its truth no one would dispute to-day. And what his pen did for the nation, his example did for the parish. He drained unwholesome pools in his own garden, and he persuaded his neighbours to do the same. He taught them daily lessons about the value of fresh air and clean water: no details were too dull and wearisome in the cause. To many people his novels, like those of Dickens and Charles Reade, are spoilt by the advocacy of social reforms. The novel with a purpose was characteristic of the early Victorian Age, and both in Alton Locke and in Two Years Ago he makes little disguise of the zeal with which he preaches sanitary72 reform. Of the more attractive sciences, which he pursued with equal intensity, there is little room to speak. Botany was his first love and it remained first to the end. Zoology73 at times ran it close, and his letters from seaside places are full of the names of marine74 creatures which he stored in tanks and examined with his microscope. A dull day on the coast was inconceivable to him. Geology, too, thrilled him with its wonders, and was the subject of many letters.
Side by side with his hobby of natural history went his love of sport: it was impossible for him to separate the one from the other. Fishing was his chief delight; he pursued it with equal keenness in the chalk streams of Hampshire, in the salmon75 rivers of Ireland, in the desolate76 tarns77 on the Welsh mountains. In the visitors’ book of the inn at Pen-y-gwryd, Tom Hughes, Tom Taylor, and he left alternate quatrains of doggerel78 to celebrate their stay, written currente calamo, as the spirit prompted them. This is Charles Kingsley’s first quatrain:
I came to Pen-y-gwryd in frantic79 hopes of slaying80
Grilse, salmon, three-pound red-fleshed trout and what else there’s no saying:
But bitter cold and lashing81 rain and black nor’-eastern skies, sir,
Drove me from fish to botany, a sadder man and wiser.
Each had his disappointment through the weather, which each expressed in verse; but it took more than bad weather to damp the spirits of three such ardent82 open-air enthusiasts83. Hunting was another favourite sport, though he rarely indulged himself in this luxury, and only when he could do so without much expense. But whenever a friend gave him a mount, Kingsley was ready to follow the Berkshire hounds, and with his knowledge of the country he was able to hold his own with the best.
Let us try to imagine him then as he walked about the lanes and commons of Eversley in middle life, a spare upright figure, above the middle height, with alert step, informal but not slovenly84 in dress, with no white tie or special mark of his profession. His head was one to attract notice anywhere with the grand hawk-like nose, firm mouth, and flashing eye. The deep lines furrowed85 between the brows gave his face an almost stern expression which his cheery conversation soon belied86. He might be carrying a fishing-rod or a bottle of medicine for a sick parishioner, or sometimes both: his faithful Dandie Dinmont would be in attendance and perhaps one of his children walking at his side. His walk would be swift and eager, with his eye wandering restlessly around to observe all that he passed: ‘it seemed as if no bird or beast or insect, scarcely a cloud in the sky, passed by him unnoticed, unwelcomed.’ So too with humanity — in breadth of sympathy he resembled ‘the Shirra’, who became known to every wayfarer87 between Teviot and Tweed. Gipsy boy, farm-hand, old grandmother, each would be sure of a greeting and a few words of talk when they met the Rector on his rounds. In society he might at times be too impetuous or insistent88, when questions were stirred in which he was deeply interested. Tennyson tells us how he ‘walked hard up and down the study for hours, smoking furiously and affirming that tobacco was the only thing that kept his nerves quiet’. Green compares him to a restless animal, and Stopford Brooke speaks of his quick-rushing walk, his keen face like a sword, and his body thinned out to a lath, and complains that he ‘often screams when he ought to speak’. But this excitability was soothed89 by the country, and in his own parish he was at his best. He would never have been so beloved by his parishioners, if they had not found him willing to listen as well as to advise and to instruct.
His first venture into public life met with less general favour. The year 1848 saw many upheavals90 in Europe. On the Continent thrones tottered91 and fell, republics started up for a moment and faded away. In England it was the year of the Chartist riots, and political and social problems gave plenty of matter for thought. Monster meetings were held in London, which were not free from disorder92. The wealthier classes and the Government were alarmed, troops were brought up to London and the Duke of Wellington put in command. Events seemed to point to outbreaks of violence and the starting of a class-war. Frederick Denison Maurice, whom above all men living Kingsley revered93, was the leader of a group of men who were greatly stirred by the movement. They saw that more than political reform and political charters were needed; and, while full of sympathy for the working classes, they were not minded to say smooth things and prophesy94 Utopias in which they had no belief. Filled with the desire to help his fellow-men, indignant at abuses which he had seen with his own eyes, Kingsley came at once to their side. He went to London to see for himself, attended meetings, wrote pamphlets, and seemed to be promoting agitation95. The tone in which he wrote can best be seen by a few words from the pamphlet addressed to the ‘Workmen of England’, which was posted up in London. ‘The Charter is not bad, if the men who use it are not bad. But will the Charter make you free? Will it free you from slavery to ten-pound bribes96? Slavery to gin and beer? Slavery to every spouter97 who flatters your self-conceit and stirs up bitterness and headlong rage in you? That I guess is real slavery, to be a slave to one’s own stomach, one’s pocket, one’s own temper.’ This is hardly the tone of the agitator98 as known to us to-day. With his friends Kingsley brought out a periodical, Politics for the People, in which he wrote in the same tone. ‘My only quarrel with the Charter is that it does not go far enough in reform. . . . I think you have fallen into the same mistake as the rich of whom you complain, I mean the mistake of fancying that legislative99 reform is social reform, or that men’s hearts can be changed by Act of Parliament.’ He did not limit himself to denouncing such errors. He encouraged the working man to educate himself and to find rational pleasures in life, contributing papers on the National Gallery and bringing out the human interest of the pictures. ‘Parson Lot’, the nom de guerre which Kingsley adopted, became widely known for warm-hearted exhortations100, for practical and sagacious counsels.
Two years later he published Alton Locke, describing the life of a young tailor whose mind and whose fortunes are profoundly influenced by the Chartist movement. From a literary point of view it is far from being his best work; and the critics agreed to belittle101 it at the time and to pass it over with apology at his death. But it received a warm welcome from others. While it roused the imagination of many young men and set them thinking, the veteran Carlyle could speak of ‘the snatches of excellent poetical102 description, occasional sunbursts of noble insight, everywhere a certain wild intensity which holds the reader fast as by a spell’.
Should any one ask why a rector of a country parish mixed himself up in London agitation, many answers could be given. His help was sought by Maurice, who worked among the London poor. Many of the questions at issue affected103 also the agricultural labourer. Only one who was giving his life to serve the poor could effectively expose the mistakes of their champions. The upper classes, squires104 and merchants and politicians, had shut their eyes and missed their chances. So when the ship is on fire, no one blames the chaplain or the ship’s doctor for lending a hand with the buckets.32
That his efforts in London met with success can be seen from many sources besides the popularity of Alton Locke. He wrote a pamphlet entitled ‘Cheap Clothes and Nasty’, denouncing the sweaters’ shops and supporting the co-operative movement, which was beginning to arise out of the ashes of Chartism. Of this pamphlet a friend told him that he saw three copies on the table in the Guards’ Club, and that he heard that captains in the Guards were going to the co-operative shop in Castle Street and buying coats there. A success of a different kind and one more valued by Kingsley himself was the conversion105 of Thomas Cooper, the popular writer in Socialist106 magazines, who preached atheistical107 doctrines108 weekly to many thousand working men. Kingsley found him to be sincerely honest, spent infinite time in writing him friendly letters, discussing their differences of opinion, and some years later had the joy of inducing him to become an active preacher of the Gospel. But most of the well-to-do people, including the clergy, were prejudiced against Kingsley by his Radical109 views. On one occasion he had to face a painful scene in a London church, when the vicar who had invited him to preach rose after the sermon and formally protested against the views to which his congregation had been listening. Bishop110 Blomfield at first sided with the vicar; but in the end he did full justice to the sincerity111 and charity of Kingsley’s views and sanctioned his continuing to preach in the Diocese.
It was his literary successes which helped most to break down the prejudice existing against him in society. Hypatia, published in 1853, had a mixed reception; but Westward Ho! appearing two years later, was universally popular. His eloquence112 in the pulpit was becoming known to a wider circle, largely owing to officers who came over from Aldershot and Sandhurst to hear him; and early in 1859 he was asked to preach before the Queen and Prince Consort113. His appointment as chaplain to the Queen followed before the year was out; and this made a great difference in his position and prospects114. What he valued equally was the hearty115 friendship which he formed with the Prince Consort. They had the same tastes, the same interests, the same serious outlook on life. A year later came a still higher distinction when Kingsley was appointed Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. His history lectures, it is generally agreed, are not of permanent value as a contribution to the knowledge of the subject. With his parish work and other interests he had no time for profound study. But his eloquence and descriptive powers were such as to attract a large class of students, and many can still read with pleasure his lectures on The Roman and the Teuton, in which he was fired by the moral lessons involved in the decay of the Roman empire and the coming of the vigorous young northern races. Apart from his lectures he had made his mark in Cambridge by the friendly relations which he established with many of the undergraduates and the personal influence which he exercised. But he knew better than any one else his shortcomings as an historian, the preparation of his lectures gave him great anxiety and labour, and in 1869 he resigned the office.
The next honour which fell to him was a canonry at Chester, and in 1873, less than two years before his death, he exchanged it for a stall at Westminster. These historic cities with their old buildings and associations attracted him very strongly: preaching in the Abbey was even dangerously exciting to a man of his temperament116. But while he gave his services generously during his months of office, as at Chester in founding a Natural History Society, he never deserted117 his old work and his old parish. Eversley continued to be his home, and during the greater part of each year to engross118 his thoughts.
Literature, science, and sport were, as we have seen, the three interests which absorbed his leisure hours. A fourth, partaking in some measure of all three, was travel, a hobby which the strenuous119 pursuit of duty rarely permitted him to indulge. Ill-health or a complete breakdown sometimes sent him away perforce, and it is to this that he chiefly owed his knowledge of other climes. He has left us some fascinating pictures of the south of France, the rocks of Biarritz, the terrace at Pau, the blue waters of the Mediterranean120, and the golden arches of the Pont du Gard; but the voyages that thrilled him most were those that he took to America, when he sailed the Spanish main in the track of Drake and Raleigh and Richard Grenville. The first journey in 1870 was to the West Indies; the second and longer one took him to New York and Quebec, and across the continent to the Yosemite and San Francisco. This was in 1874, the last year of his life, and he was received everywhere with the utmost respect and goodwill121. His name was now famous on both sides of the Atlantic, and the voice of opposition122 was stilled. The public had changed its attitude to him, but he himself was unchanged. He had the same readiness to gather up new knowledge, and to get into friendly touch with every kind of man, the same reluctance123 to talk about himself. Only the yearning124 towards the unseen was growing stronger. The poet Whittier, who met him at Boston, found him unwilling125 to talk about his own books or even about the new cities which he was visiting, but longing126 for counsel from his brother poet on the high themes of a future life and the final destiny of the human race.
While he was in California he was taken ill with pleurisy; and when he came back to England he had so serious a relapse in the autumn that he could hardly perform his duties at Westminster. He had never wished for long life, his strength was exhausted127, the ardent soul had worn out its sheath. A dangerous illness of his wife’s, threatening to leave him solitary128, hastened the end. For her sake he fought a while against the pneumonia129 which set in, but the effort was in vain, and on January 23, in his own room at Eversley, he met his death contented130 and serene131. Twenty years before he had said, ‘God forgive me if I am wrong, but I look forward to it with an intense and reverent132 curiosity’.
These words of his sum up some of his most marked characteristics. Of his ‘curiosity’ there is no need to say more: all his life he was pursuing eager researches into rocks, flowers, animals, and his fellow-men. ‘Intensity’ has been picked out by many of his friends as the word which, more than any other, expresses the peculiar133 quality of his nature. This does not mean a weak excitability. His letters to J. S. Mill on the women-suffrage movement show that this hysterical134 element, which was often to be found in the women supporting it, was what most he feared. He himself defines it well —‘my blessed habit of intensity. I go at what I am about as if there was nothing else in the world for the time being.’ This quality, which many great men put into their work, Kingsley put both into his work and into his play-time. Critics will say that he paid for it: it is easy to quote the familiar line: ‘Neque semper arcum tendit Apollo.’ But Horace is not the poet to whom Charles Kingsley would go for counsel: he would only say that he got full value in both, and that he never regretted the bargain.
But it would be no less true to say that ‘Reverence’ is the key-note of his character. This fact was impressed on all who saw him take the services in his parish church, and it was an exaltation of reverence which uplifted his congregation and stamped itself on their memories. It is seen, too, in his political views. The Radical Parson, the upholder of Chartism, was in many ways a strong Tory. He had a great belief in the land-owning classes, and an admiration135 for what remained of the Feudal136 System. He believed that the old relation between squire and villagers, if each did his duty, worked far better than the modern pretence137 of Equality and Independence. Like Disraeli, like Ruskin, and like many other men of high imagination, he distrusted the Manchester School and the policy that in the labour market each class should be left to fend138 for itself. Radical as he was, he defended the House of Lords and the hereditary139 system. So, too, in Church questions, though he was an anti-Tractarian, he had a great reverence for the Athanasian Creed140 and in general was a High Churchman. He had none of the fads141 which we associate with the Radical party. Total abstinence he condemned142 as a rigid rule, though there was no man more severe in his attitude to drunkenness. He believed that God’s gifts were for man’s enjoyment143, and he set his face against asceticism144. He trained his own body to vigorous manhood and he had remarkable145 self-control; and he wished to help each man to do this for himself and not to be driven to it by what he considered a false system. Logically it may be easy to find contradictions in the views which he expressed at different times; but his life shows an essential unity146 in aim and practice.
It has been the fashion to label Charles Kingsley and his teaching with the nickname of ‘Muscular Christianity’, a name which he detested147 and disclaimed148. It implied that he and his school were of the full-blooded robust149 order of men, who had no sympathy for weakness, and no message for those who could not follow the same strenuous course as themselves. As a fact Kingsley had his full share of bodily illnesses and suffered at all times from a highly-wrought nervous organization; when pain to others was involved, he was as tender and sympathetic as a woman. He was a born fighter, too reckless in attack, as we see in his famous dispute with Cardinal150 Newman about the honesty of the Tractarians. But he was not bitter or resentful. He owned himself that in this case he had met a better logician151 than himself: later he expressed his admiration for Newman’s poem, ‘The Dream of Gerontius’, and in his letters he praises the tone in which the Tractarians write —‘a solemn and gentle earnestness which is most beautiful and which I wish I may ever attain’. The point which Matthew Arnold singles out in estimating his character is the width of his sympathies. ‘I think’, he says, ‘he was the most generous man I have ever known, the most forward to praise what he thought good, the most willing to admire, the most incapable152 of being made ill-natured or even indifferent by having to support ill-natured attacks himself. Among men of letters I know nothing so rare as this.’ To the gibe153 about ‘Muscular Christianity’ Kingsley had his own answer. He said that with his tastes and gifts he had a special power of appealing to the wild rough natures which were more at home in the country than the town, who were too self-forgetful, and too heedless of the need for culture and for making use of their opportunities. Jacob, the man of intellect, had many spiritual guides, and the poor outcast, Esau, was too often overlooked. As he said, ‘The one idea of my life was to tell Esau that he has a birthright as well as Jacob’. When he was laid to his rest in Eversley churchyard, there were many mourners who represented the cultured classes of the day; but what gave its special character to the occasion was the presence of keepers and poachers, of gipsies, country rustics154, and huntsmen, the Esaus of the Hampshire village, which was the fit resting-place for one who above all was the ideal of a parish priest.
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ordained
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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4
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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5
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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6
graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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8
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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10
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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11
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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12
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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13
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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14
fens
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| n.（尤指英格兰东部的）沼泽地带( fen的名词复数 ) | |
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15
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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16
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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17
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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18
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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19
spurts
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| 短暂而突然的活动或努力( spurt的名词复数 )； 突然奋起 | |
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20
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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21
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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22
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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23
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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24
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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25
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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26
ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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27
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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28
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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29
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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30
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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31
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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32
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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33
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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34
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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35
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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36
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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37
puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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38
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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39
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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40
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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41
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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42
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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43
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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44
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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45
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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46
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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47
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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48
exasperate
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| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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49
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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50
convoked
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| v.召集，召开（会议）( convoke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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52
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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53
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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54
otter
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| n.水獭 | |
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55
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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56
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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57
disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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58
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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59
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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60
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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61
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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62
transfuses
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| v.输（血或别的液体）( transfuse的第三人称单数 )；渗透；使…被灌输或传达 | |
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63
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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64
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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65
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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66
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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67
sanitation
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| n.公共卫生，环境卫生，卫生设备 | |
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68
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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69
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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70
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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71
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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72
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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73
zoology
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| n.动物学，生态 | |
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74
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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75
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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76
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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77
tarns
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| n.冰斗湖，山中小湖( tarn的名词复数 ) | |
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78
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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79
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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80
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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81
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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82
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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83
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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84
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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85
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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87
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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88
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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89
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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90
upheavals
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| 突然的巨变( upheaval的名词复数 )； 大动荡； 大变动； 胀起 | |
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91
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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92
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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93
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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95
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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96
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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97
spouter
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| 喷油井；捕鲸船；说话滔滔不绝的人；照管流出槽的工人 | |
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98
agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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99
legislative
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| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
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100
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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101
belittle
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| v.轻视，小看，贬低 | |
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102
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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103
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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104
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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105
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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106
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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107
atheistical
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| adj.无神论（者）的 | |
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108
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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109
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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110
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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111
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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112
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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113
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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114
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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115
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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116
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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117
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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118
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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119
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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120
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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121
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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122
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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123
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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124
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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125
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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126
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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127
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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128
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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129
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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130
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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131
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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141
fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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143
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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144
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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145
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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logician
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| n.逻辑学家 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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